Winter's Heart Book Novels & Stories

The world was a blur of silver snow and black fur. Elara clung to Kaelen’s back, her fingers buried so deep in his thick coat that her knuckles had turned white. The wind whipped past her face, cold enough to draw blood, but she didn’t feel the chill. All she felt was the rhythmic, powerful thud of the Black Winter’s heart against her legs.

We each had our own paths, so there was no point in dragging each other down. Back then, I had no idea that on the other end of the ocean, Oliver flung his phone into a corner of the couch after getting dumped. He picked up a handgun and fired three consecutive shots into the bullseye. Then, he smirked and spat, "Alright then. I guess playing nice doesn't work anymore." … Last winter, Oliver said Canverly was so cold it felt like frost crept into the bones. I asked, "Is it colder than my place, Glaciara?"

“Have it while it’s warm.” Miles suddenly rose to his feet and walked into the kitchen, picking up that apron. The fabric was soft, carrying a faint scent of cooking smoke. He clenched it in his hands, then let go. The rain fell harder, streaking the windows. Trees outside bent and swayed in the wind. Miles stood by the window, staring at his reflection. He suddenly remembered how terrified Wendy had been of thunderstorms. On rainy days, she used to curl up in his arms, burying her face in his chest.

And somewhere in the quiet, his hand found my waist again, slow and unconscious, fingers resting there like a claim he didn’t know he was making. I didn’t move away. I closed my eyes and let myself feel it, the warmth, the weight, the fragile miracle of Dawson Lane sleeping through the night. In the other room, Liberty’s laughter had finally faded into silence. Outside, the world stayed dark and uncertain. But in this bed, for a few precious hours, the storm inside him quieted. My heart, stupid, faithful, terrified, beat like it had finally been allowed to speak.

"No, Seven. You listen! I don't want to hear any more from you. I think am better off single right now. I can't hand over my heart again to you when I don't even know what's up with you. You have changed. And I have changed too. It's best we stay away from each other." "Don't say that, Winter. You are breaking my heart." She rolled her eyes and said sassily, "Well, two can play the game. It's time for you to leave." With a taut face, she held the door open and waited. I was utterly surprised by her ability to resist my charm. Again, I realized that the bio-data I had received on her wasn't accurate. Winter appeared weak, but she was strangely strong. It appeared that there was no convincing

Winter. Lying in the small bed facing a brown-colored ceiling, I felt sweat dripping from my body with each passing minute. My heart rate increased so fast that I could hear how loud it beat against my ribcage. My chest heaved up and down in rhythm as the heat spread all over my body. “Fuck my life,” I cursed, moving restlessly to ease the pain. ‘Fuck you, Winter.’ Snow snarled at me. She was beyond angry right now and knowing how tortured she was, I couldn’t even refute her.

I turn back to Alec, and even though my skull is pounding from the blow, there’s something like victory swelling in my chest. And then I see them. Silver Hunters coming out of the library and from around the building. Ten of them, at least. My stomach drops. I curl my hands into fists. I can do this. Heather and her friends were no match for me. What makes this group any different? One of the Hunters lifts their sword, and fire appears out of nowhere. It races through the grass, forming a ring around me. “Winter!” Alec shouts. I panic, looking for a way out, but the wall of fire is too high. The Hunter who cast it advances on Alec, who is too busy trying to get to me to see what’s behind him

Nothing less. Perhaps this was why they called me heartless. Cold. Even evil. But I was never evil to my pack. If I actually succumbed to the true desires of my demons, I would make every wolf present howl in pain, just like my father did. But I wasn’t my father. Amanda blinked away her shock and straightened her back. I could see the tears brimming in her deep blue eyes, but it didn’t affect me. It didn’t hurt me. It didn’t even make me feel happy. I felt nothing. Like always.

The city moved at a gentler pace. People bundled in coats hurried through streets. Children built imperfect snowmen. Cars crawled cautiously through intersections. Life continued. Beautifully ordinary. Later that afternoon, Ama found herself walking home alone. Fresh snow crunched beneath her boots. The air carried that unique winter stillness. Not silence. A quieter version of the world. She passed a bookstore. Then stopped. A display window had caught her attention. New releases. Classic novels. Poetry collections. Stories. So many stories. Each one beginning with a choice.

I just don’t care. Winter listens. Sometimes with tears in her eyes. She starts bringing a second blanket. She brings books. She even offers—tentatively—to ask her father if I can be moved to a less damp cell. And the more I pretend to unravel, the closer she draws. Her wolf is obsessed with mine. I feel the pull every time she comes close. My own wolf snarls beneath the surface, but I keep it caged. I don’t give in. This isn’t about instinct. It’s about war.